


Mrs Hudson's Advice

by imightbewrong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hugging, M/M, More hugging, Post S4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imightbewrong/pseuds/imightbewrong
Summary: Sherlock and John may be back in Baker Street but they still have to work on their past to make their future work.Mrs Hudson won't let them do otherwise anyway.





	1. A Little Advice

   
They were sitting next to each other at the kitchen table.  
John was looking unsure, holding Rosie on his lap and Sherlock was looking straight in front of himself, face blank. That’s when she said it. On that uneventful morning, the first one since John had reinvested his Baker Street home. It felt like the end of the world had come. She had even brought up tea without mentioning any housekeeper.  
“You should go to couples’ therapy” said Mrs Hudson.

“Noiseless” would be one way to describe their reaction. “Shocked” would probably fit better. John was going on loop with some “what?” “why?” soft noises. And Sherlock was, well, looking straight in front of himself, face blank.  
“Look. I know you two care deeply for each other. But you can’t stay like this. You can’t keep everything unsaid. The past is not going to disappear or get better by some miracle, loves.” She seemed at the same time sad and hopeful. That was a very powerful look  
“We’re not even a couple, Mrs Hudson!” John tried, sounding upset.  
She turned her honest and determined eyes to him.  
“You are about to raise a child together! Of course you are a couple!” She was starting to lose her temper. John went from defensive to scared in the blink of an eye. “And I am not going to let you do so in an abusive relationship!”   
The silence was deafening. Sherlock was looking at some without-a-doubt-amazing dust on the kitchen top. John had stopped blinking, doing great honors to his “golden fish” status. Rosie was trying to stuff her pacifier in his still open mouth.  
“John. Look at me, dear. I know you can be a great man for our Sherlock. The best probably. But believe me I know what an abusive relationship is. You need to work on your anger and your frustration.”  
She turned to face the son she never had.  
“Sherlock… Sherlock. Please, my sweet boy. You’re not helping John by letting him hurt you, love.” She took a long and slow breath. “You both deserve to be happy. Go to therapy."  
"Ok.”  
Sherlock’s head snapped so fast he probably broke at least two of his cervical vertebrae.  
"Yeah, ok.” John said again.

A lightning smile irradiated Martha Hudson’s face.

***

In the end John made an appointment for the two of them with Ella. To be honest, it was quite clear that one of their issue was a little *cough* difficulty to communicate. And the choice of a therapist was no exception. So John went for the well-known, thinking it was better avoiding any chance of hiring long forgotten psychopath sisters.  
Over the phone, John had detected that Ella was trying to keep her enthusiasm under control as if it was some kind of a secret victory to have John get to this point. Couples’ therapy.  
They went the next week. It remained a mystery to John how Sherlock even knew why the two of them were leaving the flat that day but they managed to get a cab and to Ella’s office without exchanging a word. Thanks for Mrs Hudson’s ability to understand subtext when a child was silently handed over to her on her threshold.

"So.”

Ella could barely hide the smile on her lips. It was already putting John on edge. He was trying to play it cool, moving his fingers as an imaginary -not very in tune- drummer. Sherlock was looking at the room -furnished but looking empty-, the white walls -only her practice certificate in an ugly dark frame on it-, the desk –neat, old fashioned-, the skirt –too long, or too short, or maybe too green-, the left shoe –walked in a dog dung 27 minutes earlier while smoking a cigarette outside her office-.

Her seventh and last nervous coughing. That was it. John could not stand it any longer.  
“So our landlady thinks I have to deal with my anger. And with my frustration, she said. And my “violence as only way of expression”, she should probably have added.”  
“I see.” Ella said, starting scribbling on her note book.  
“Do you?” spitted Sherlock. The scribbling stopped. Ella looked at him and turned her attention back to John.  
“John. Tell me. Do you know why she thinks so?”

John’s body got still. He was breathing deeply and looking at Ella as if trying to figure out if she could handle what he was about to say. Or maybe this was more for himself.  
“I know what Sherlock did for me. Since we met. He saved me. He sacrificed his life for me. Thrice. He stayed by my side whatever happened… and the only way I ever reacted was to assault him. Physically. At least four times. Or verbally. I lost count on that one.”  
“I see."  
“Stop saying that.” interjected Sherlock.  
“And”, she kept her attention on John, unfazed “What are you feeling exactly in those moments?”  
“I don’t know. I could not name it. It’s… so powerful I can’t control it. But every time it’s as if Sherlock was a target.”  
“Do you regret what you did?” Ella asked.  
“Yes. Yes I do.” admitted John. A small smile crossed Sherlock’s features.  
“Maybe you could start saying so.”

Ella put her pen and notebook on her desk, deep in thought. She was coming up with something else, Sherlock could feel it. He dares a look at John who was, on his part, looking at the floor -ugly beige plush carpet -seems hard to clean it if someone gets sick on it-  
“Let’s try some behavior therapy. John. Next time you feel this coming, don’t yell, don’t break anything. Just hug him.”

***


	2. A little practice

They made it back home without a word.

Sherlock was turning all the events of the last hour in his head, nearly mind-palace-walking. At first he had thought that, maybe -maybe- this Ella wasn’t that bad. John could probably benefit from learning how to deal with that explosive energy of his.  
And then, as he had thought the therapy-torture was over, and as John had seemed indefinitely incapable of speech anymore, she had turned her stare on him.

“So. Mister Holmes.” Ella said. “What about you? Tell me how you feel when John hurts you like that, verbally or physically.”  
“FEEL?” he had answered in his typical sarcastic tone, “I don’t “feel””. He looked utterly disgusted. John got scared for the carpet.

Ella’s hysterical laughter kind of surprised everyone in the room, even the out-of-the-room assistant who rushed through the door, already sure that “that Sherlock Holmes” she had heard about was doing unspeakable things to her employer.

After a moment to get things under control, Ella took her time to get back on track. A sorry-for-scaring-you smile to the assistant, a few deep breaths -could anyone hyperventilate by breathing too deep? That would be an interesting subject of experiment, Sherlock took note to suggest it to John someday-, and some coughing to find a not-devilish voice again, and she said, as if nothing special had happened:

“M. Holmes. I am sorry to announce you that you do, in fact, feel. It’s written on every part of your being. In the caution you always carry in your eyes. In the way you keep your body always in check.”  
Sherlock eyed her cautiously, unmoving.

“Right. Sherlock. Let’s try some behavior therapy. Next time you “don’t feel”: open your eyes, move, and just hug him.” 

***

“I really don’t remember… did she say anything about how long a hug should last? Must it be proportional to the impulse that caused it” John asked. “Because I think I’ve just heard the We-close-in-5-minutes message, right?”  
“I don’t remember any information about duration, no.” Sherlock answered. “But I don’t think you need to worry: they should throw us out of that Tesco nightmare any minute now”.  
John huffed, chagrined: “Will they let us pay before we go? I would rather avoid another argument in the vegetable department. People have been staring at us at least for the past fifteen minutes.”  
“Maybe you could let go of me, because believe me this artichoke was far from good for consumption anyway and I really have very little need of one for any experiment.”  
John released his embrace. “Right. Let’s hurry and choose something else then.”

 

***

“I think we’re taking the grasp of it. hahaha.” That was a feeble joke but John was really scared of his hugging technique being under Ella’s scrutiny.  
“Right. Good. So, how many hugs did you need yesterday?” She asked.  
John started, pensive: “mmmm…. It’s hard to say, I didn’t really keep co…”  
“47.”  
John looked like a little boy who had all his last math exam wrong and Sherlock couldn’t help but find it a little endearing. Wasn’t that blushing adorable?... “adorable”? Damn this therapy!

***


	3. A little confusion

“Hey! Isn’t it supposed to be my hugging?”  
“What do you mean “your” hugging?” John enquired.  
“I’m the one supposed to hug-feel, you’re the one supposed to hug-hurt”. Sherlock was getting quite lost in all this behavior stuff himself but he was quite sure to have at least this right.

John raised his face from the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “You’re sure I was not complaining about anything?”  
“Of course I’m sure. And last time I checked, buying milk and not exposing it to Citric acid was in the Good category.”

***

“And this is how the elephant did it!” Sherlock was waving his arms in the air triumphantly when a John Watson crashed-cuddled him. It suddenly seemed that the four dead bodies on the floor were not the object of the crime scene anymore. A few yarders were barely pretending that something was amazingly interesting on the far wall and Lestrade’s face was turning into an unprecedented scarlet and looked like he was on the edge of asphyxia. He only manages to breathe a small “John?”

“Sorry. Pavlovian response.”

***

Molly Hooper’s laughs were filing the flat as they came back home. Sherlock was still failing to understand how she could have ever forgiven him for all she had suffered from him. He reflected that she could probably be refered to as an Amazing Friend.

“Oh here they are! Come on Rosie let’s show Daddy and Sherlock what we’ve learned!” She kneeled on the living room carpet and spread her arms. “Look! Isn’t it funny how she keeps hugging all the time? She’s just adorable!”

Both men started to choke not daring to look at each other. “Yeah, isn’t it surprising…” John managed between two coughs.

***


	4. A little talking

“So. How many hugs yesterday?” Ella asked.

John didn’t even try to pretend he had any potential answer and let Sherlock get it right again.”42”.

“Well, we can’t say there has been a lot of evolution in this figure. How do you analyze this result?” Ella sked. John could feel that it was more a trap than a question. He had gone over ten years of therapy after all, he was at least able to understand a little how it worked by now. It appeared that Sherlock was not as aware as him for once. So there started his tirade:

“Obviously the figure is not the only data to be analyzed. The nature itself of the hug has to be taken into account. In this precise situation the subjects went from 47 hugs with a ratio of 95% hug-hurt to 42 hugs with an inverse proportion reaching the percentage of 87% of hug-feel!” He stood up, unsheathed a pen from an unknown trousers pocket and was about to write his conclusions on the white office wall when he came to a halt, realizing what he had just confessed.

His arm fell slowly towards the floor and settled at his side, the urge to prove himself right forgotten.  
Even if Sherlock and John were firmly keeping their stares on that awfully atrocious damn carpet of hers, Ella’s broad smile could be heard in the tone of her voice. “I see.” Sherlock sat down quietly, deciding against starting a “Do you?” war now.

“So, John, Sherlock, I think we’ve reached a satisfying conclusion to our behavior therapy, don’t you think? Let’s get to the next step then.” The deep breathe she took made both men shivering with anxiety. “How do you feel about starting to use words and speak to each other now?”

***

That night, in the dark, with only the soft glow of the lights from Baker Street through the window of John Watson bedroom it seemed as if everything was quiet, peaceful, like after a storm in a warm spring day. As if all was settled down, falling neatly into place.

Since Sherlock and John had decided to admit that this whole therapy thing may not be that much a waste of time after all, they had skipped the this-is-nonsense-English-men-don’t-talk stage. For the last four hours they had been lying on John’s bed, sharing their thoughts on the past years in a soft feel-hug.

In the end it was not that difficult to confess to each other how they had felt inexorably linked one to the other since that very first day. They were feeling warm and safe as they voiced all the events that had eventually driven them here, in each other’s arms, talking softly, breathing the same air as it always should have been.

“You know what?” Sherlock whispered. “I’m definitely sure she didn’t say anything about how long a hug should last.” 

John only smiled, tightening his embrace.

***


End file.
